


String Theory

by EAI



Series: Angel Song [2]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: BAMF Bruce Wayne, BAMF Diana Prince, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Superman, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The wasted years have passed so slowly, without connection to my only. I will not live without you near me, love cannot fit inside a theory. The end is near, defining lonely. Is anybody there to show me?”</p>
<p>- Excerpt from Les Friction’s String Theory.</p>
<p>This is the companion piece to ‘Lullaby of Bruce Wayne’. Please visit and take a gander at LoBW first before reading this work, to understand this universe a little bit better (filling in the little plot holes), and to be continued on LoBW’s chapter seven. A couple of warnings: the catastrophic Black Zero Event in Man of Steel has never occurred in this timeline, Thomas and Martha are still alive and thus, Bruce is never Batman to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, English is not my first language. 
> 
> I will finish this story first before continuing on TLoBW, mkay? I'm terribly sorry, please don't hate me.

~*~ 

 

“—my dear baby boy, the truth about you? Is beautiful. We saw that from the moment we laid eyes on you. We knew that one day, the whole world would see that,” there was a small, gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips, wrinkling her blushing fair and radiant skin. Martha, his darling mother – adoptive or not – was proud of him, of how far he went on with his life. Then she drew a sigh, her happiness drained immediately. She seemed restless, unsatisfied and concerned. “I’m just—I’m worried that they’d take you away from me.”

“Mom—“Clark chuckled lightly when his mother began to sob, letting her burrowing close – soaking in each other’s warmth and love. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and swore. “I’m not going anywhere, mom. I promise. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

Martha, half an hour later, offered to cook him his favorites for dinner to officially welcome him home after so many months (he would never refuse her delicious home-cooked meals, especially her blueberry-cheese pie and steamed chicken) and see how Jonathan had handled the sudden news. Clark remained seated alone on the porch steps of his childhood farmhouse, with Dusty trotting about and waggling her tail, begging for his attention. Tuning out the calming buzzes, barks and soft chirps, he listened quietly and closed his eyes to his father’s muffled cries and his mother’s humbling and sweet, sweet comfort and hushes. Their voices droning low, footsteps shuffling and scraping against the floorboards, followed by a soft click of a bedroom door. From the steady, peaceful thrumming of their hearts, the both of them were thrilled. Overjoyed at best, though a little sad. Clark felt helpless, once again, he couldn’t do anything to ease their sadness. He was meant to discover his true heritage eventually, this revelation was meant to be, but despite everything, he still considered both Jonathan and Martha as his human parents who raised and loved him unconditionally.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes; admiring the slow swaying and weaving of wheat under the setting blood-red sky, casting orange shadows over chocolates and greens, and the glorious shine of the young sun. the fragrant summer smell wafting from the damp earth, his mother’s pink lilies, orchids and chamomiles, and a swish of apple pie (his father’s favorite). This was his home sweet home, a place where he would always return to, his sanctuary. He felt better now that he knew who and what he was, and why he was sent here. He was meant to do _good_.

But—

—when Clark thought he could finally overcome the fears he had built over the abusive and grueling years, for being different and alone, a _year_ later as he routed and exposed himself to a much harsher and corrupting trials, were stories and recollections worth telling someday, in the mere future. The day he revealed, introduced himself to the world, allying himself with General Swanwick (under his own terms), saving hundreds and thousands of victims caught in a cold-blooded warfare – people called him a humanoid beast.

A weapon.

A hero, their savior.

An angel.

Codenamed, Superman.

The House of El’s uniform was proudly donned. Clark was the living symbol of strength, kindness, hope and protection to those in dire need. He was the celestial figure who roamed the boundless sky, a God who walked amongst sinned men. Worshipped and loved, he was the epitome of Justice.

Never the Judge, the Jury nor the Executioner.

 

~*~

 

Metropolis, he found, was a grand city.

Clark constructed a different persona for himself, a vulnerable illusion to protect his much-publicized superhero identity – as a mild-mannered, weak and gullible man from Kansas, who lived in a cheap and run-down apartment in the city. He quickly impressed hordes of editors and directors with his skills in journalism (traits in which he learned, or cheated, in less than an hour), found work at the renowned Daily Planet and befriended Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen. They loved having him around, teasing him and laughing with him. But in the quietness of the scout ship, the only treasure he had of his planet, on Ellesmere Island now he called his Fortress of Solitude, hidden and would remain undiscovered underneath shelves of ice, was where he could truly be _Kal-El_. He would spend his time learning about Krypton; its advanced and lost technology, scriptures, his own physiology – limits and capabilities, his people and his birth parents. He would diligently train himself mentally and physically, and would master his ranging abilities under Kelor’s – the Kryptonian AI – strict tutelage. It took all Kryptonian lives to ensure his safe journey to Earth, and all he could do, was to honor their sacrifices into becoming the best of both worlds.

It was 5:59 AM, upon saving a group of shipwrecked fishermen, when he stumbled on a wreckage – a strange metallic appendage that crawled deep into the bottom of the Indian Ocean. The stout captain said to him that marine archaeologists discovered something phenomenal underneath and called the authorities, but _“scientists and men in suits and uniforms”_ came and took charge, and had hundreds of miles of the ocean sealed under the name of the prominent Wayne Enterprises. They bribed the locals and the media to not promulgate the Enterprises’ activities here, and left just a few days ago after salvaging kilos of unknown scraps secured in metal containers. Clark brought a few pieces of the appendage back to the fortress, had Kelor examined them and was stunned when she declared the pieces were radioactive, harmful to him and also, that the mechanical parts were from his dead planet. ‘World Engine’ she called it, a machine used to terraform and colonize planets, centuries before Krypton’s ultimate destruction. He grew suspicious then, of what ‘scraps’ the Wayne Enterprises had taken from the Engine.

Perry dispatched him one rainy morning, for a blueblood, billionaire fundraising event – “ _dress code is formal, Kent, you’ll be representing the Planet so look smart, why don’t you, professional and shave that goddamn beard_ " – held in Metropolis’ dark and infamous sister-counterpart, separated by Hob’s River, to haul delicious scoops about said city’s most powerful socialites – the Wayne Family. Led by a famed and influential patriarch and his philanthropist wife, their only son who was the current head of the family’s distinguished empire, and their two adopted grandsons both twenty-two and twenty. Lois often made rather arresting front-page headlines concerning the family’s prosperous activities – especially their community, political and advocacy-philanthropy works; charities and sponsors, ties with the military, the massive successes of their conglomerate industry, rivalry with LexCorp, and unfortunately, Bruce Wayne’s fun-seeking and irresponsible playboy adventures.

By the time Clark arrived at the world-class Gotham City Opera House that very night, wearing a dark designer suit (as recommended by Lois) he was forced to rent, hundreds of invited and registered guests and reporters had already filled the commodious and luxurious ballroom. As he personated his ‘Clark Kent’ alter-ego, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one feeling out of place.

In a sea of gold and riches, titters and chatters of high-class men and women, string quartets playing Mozart’s movements in the background, one gem who stood stiffly on top the podium beside Martha Wayne caught his attention. His first impression and reading deceptive articles didn’t matter much, and as Clark laid his eyes on _him_ , there were so much more to be learned like a fascinating puzzle. Oh, the infamous Bruce Wayne was certainly a mother’s boy – and quite a looker, this up close, for a forty year old, unmarried man. Though he somehow seemed a little out of character, docile, uncomfortable and flushed. Clark frowned, wondering if the man was sick. He looked around, the event wouldn’t start without Thomas Wayne (even the grandsons were absent too), and the hundreds of attendees and securities didn’t appear to be fazed by the playboy’s poor health. But when he turned back, Martha Wayne was now cupping her son’s face, thumbs brushing on his cheekbones, her mouth moving, worried.

“Bruce, you look like you’re about to pass out. Are you all right?”

“M-Mom, I have to tell you something—“

“What is it?” Uneasy, ticking silence. A gasp, and a tear rolling down Bruce Wayne’s cheek. “Bruce? Honey, what did you _see_?”

“…I-I’ve made a mistake.”

He heard.

A minute later, Bruce Wayne was escorted down the podium by a beautiful, tall and slender woman in a flowing red satin dress, wavy brown hair draped over one shoulder, smelling of expensive perfume, and there was an undeniably shocking strength hidden underneath her feminine grace. Then – in a crowd of hundreds, hers and Clark’s eyes met. There was no look of judgment, surprise nor anger in her steely gaze, only familiarity as if she had met him before and knew he was observing them. When she looked away, Clark began to feel the gritting curiosity about her. Bruce Wayne clung to her for support, sweat now glistened his forehead and in return, she held him protectively. Plump red-velvet lips close to the man’s ear, whispering, as Bruce Wayne nodded his head once and slow. Were they lovers? They surely made a beautiful couple. Their actions looked so enviously intimate.

Then came Star City’s billionaire politician, the Wayne Family’s close confidant – Oliver Queen, who broke out of the busy herd, hounded and slipped an arm around Bruce Wayne’s waist, holding him upright as an ugly frown plastered quickly on his face. Before they disappeared to an adjoining lounge room reserved for only the Waynes, Clark eavesdropped curiously on their hushed conversation. Bruce Wayne’s wan lips were trembling, telling a secret.

“—see to it. I have to warn you, Bruce, that I cannot promise I’ll succeed. But before I go, have you had your medicine?”

“I didn’t—I couldn’t…”

“Want me to pay Leslie a visit?” asked Oliver Queen.

“N-No, don’t… You have to tell my p-parents, please, they—“

“Hey, hey, okay. I’ll tell them later, don’t worry.”

“You have to promise me, Ollie…”

Shockingly, four days later, Bruce Wayne was reported missing.

 

~*~

 

Disturbance, murders.

In the silence of his fortress, Clark listened – parting the cacophony of despairing cries of childless parents and parentless children, furious protests and rants, shouts and pleas. He wondered, why couldn’t he hear the missing victims’ distress for help?

There was an uncontrolled uprising in Gotham’s plagued and chaotic, criminal underworld – where crime lords new and old plotted revenge against a raged and damaged adversary, a psychotic clown who called himself as the prince of crime, the Joker. The clown’s entrance was indeed extremely colorful, yet harrowing, like a circus-themed extravaganza with fireworks and neon lights, bladed porcelain marionettes, bright costumes worn by miscreants and anesthetic, thermite or poison-filled balloons. This turmoil marked the city’s greatest height of violence and fear in domestic terrorism. Series of simultaneous kidnappings (Bruce Wayne included, along with three world-tycoons), slaughters and bodies torched on the streets, bombings, deaths and blood splatters like morbid confetti. Joker reigned over Gotham overnight, destroyed and overruled the orders established by notorious crime families and made the federal government, the military chasing him like fools.

Swanwick then summoned Clark to Pentagon, approximately twelve-hours after Bruce Wayne was abducted. This devalued him from his status as the Earth’s mightiest superhuman – alien – protector to the government’s personal and disposable lapdog, to take part in a confidential meeting held between the National Security Adviser, generals and agents, and a distrusting intelligence officer who happened to be the director of A.R.G.U.S. whom he despised.

“Please, take a seat, Superman.”

The Joker, as he quickly learned, was a frequent escapee from Gotham’s most infamous mental institute; a megalomaniac, nihilistic criminal, unpredictable and had utter savage pleasure and competency in causing misery, torturing and mass murdering. His barbaric desecration of Gotham was orchestrated as his biggest homecoming, bellowing to the entire nation like a warning, casualties multiplying by the minute. Amanda Waller, the anti-meta-human intelligence officer and A.R.G.U.S. director, and an opportunistic contender to most of Wayne Family’s political and military activities, informed him that a thorough investigation was already made regarding Bruce Wayne’s kidnapping. They came across and confiscated otherworldly troves of unknown green-minerals (in which Clark presumed were taken from the Indian Ocean); calculations and theories, journal entries and constructions of incomplete, non-militarized mechanical weapons in a secret hiding-ground built underneath the Wayne heir’s solitary glasshouse, which might be the absolute cause that led to Joker’s attention.

Unfortunately, those discoveries were indecipherable even to the specialists at Pentagon, and not disclosed to the members of the Wayne Family, their close and trusted friends nor the public. Even so, Clark mourned at the thought that Waller apparently had the upper-hand and vicious understanding in the mysteries of her findings.

Waller hummed as she revealed and slid a thick folder across the table to him, a medical record, the name **‘BRUCE WAYNE’** , the numbers **‘0-0-3-2-M’** , **‘CONFIDENTIAL’** and an A.R.G.U.S. seal written and stamped at the front. Clark narrowed his eyes at her, particularly at her silence and her love for scavenging her adversaries’ secrets, but with a heavy heart did he tentatively turn a page and began to assess the pouring information before him. Whatever he read caught him by surprise, of Bruce Wayne being—

—exceptional.

—possessing uncontrolled consciousness.

—a seer to multiple realities.

—a psychoneurotic patient tagged as subject 0-0-3-2-M since the age of 8.

He grimaced at the sudden conclusion he had drawn, aware of what Waller was leading him to.

She piped, a smirk pulling her lips. “Do you understand now, why we called you here?”

“Why Bruce Wayne?” Clark demanded, as he closed the medical record, irked at Waller’s sly smile.

She tapped her fingers against the armrest of her chair, and replied, “He’s one in billions, a very special individual too. Of course, this is something that shouldn’t be leaked to the media as per Thomas Wayne’s request, and yes, I do understand the family’s need for privacy. But we shouldn’t waste this opportunity. Call it returning a favor.”

“A favor, you want to make him as your human AI? You see this as an opportunity?” he spat.

“Opportunity for planetary security,” Waller countered. “Centuries ago, Luthor’s meta-human thesis didn’t exist. Monsters and aliens were myths, old folks’ lore to scare their children until the day you crawled out whatever shithole you’ve been hiding in. It doesn’t hurt to have contingency plans, and who knows? There may be others _like_ you out there, others more vicious than you. Others who may not share your optimism.”

“And by taking advantage of a mentally disabled man makes you no less than the monsters you try to destroy, or even the terrorists who took Bruce Wayne.”

“Superman,” Swanwick interrupted, pleading by the sound of his voice and the embarrassed look on his face, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he tensed at the bitter atmosphere between Clark and Waller. With a sigh, he clasped his hands on the table, and reasoned, “Mr. Wayne has the potential, and he’s a valuable asset. He can help us, he can help you. We’re only asking you to assist us in finding Mr. Wayne, save and protect him at all costs and as soon as possible. No matter the consequences, be it collateral damages, you leave the terrorists to us.”

Collateral damages?

“What about the other victims?”

“I am sorry to say, by now, there wouldn’t be any saviors left except for Mr. Wayne.”

“You’re giving up on them then? For just one man?” he questioned, in disbelief. “And how can you be so sure they wouldn’t hurt, or worse, kill him?”

“What Mr. Wayne has is a blessing. No one will ever want to refuse that kind of power.”

Greed. He should have said no.

Providing recon two hours later, Clark found himself partnering with a selfless Amazonian warrior – Wonder Woman, as she preferred to be called – when he snuck into Joker’s guarded turf. They worked together amazingly like longtime friends, assisted by Gotham City’s SWAT as they ambushed and arrested dozens of Joker’s heavily-armed bootlickers and followers. They reclaimed the streets, successfully, but upon a spray-painted graffiti that colored the broken walls of a room that held decomposing corpses in trash bags – they ultimately failed in recovering the growing list of missing victims.

_HA!_

_HA!_

_HA!_

_JOKE’S ON **YOU**!_

Wonder Woman revealed her parentage as the heiress to Paradise Island and eventually, her adopted human identity, the antiquities dealer – Diana Prince. In 1981, set in her guise as Wonder Woman, she rescued the Waynes from the unmerciful Joe Chill and his ruthless lackeys nearby Aragon Theatre – desperate for another heavy dose of cocaine and bloodlust. The family was shoved down to their knees; nearly killed, robbed and beaten, and heckled. The incident as told by Diana, left an eight year old Bruce Wayne both psychologically and emotionally scarred, and thus, she had been his willing guardian, and a sister-figure ever since. She added, that months before the fundraising event, rumors of Joker’s grand arrival had already circulated and been set in motion. Bruce Wayne received thousands of death threats that rendered him shaken and entirely dependent on his medication, after so many years of medicine-free. Supposedly, Diana was to accompany the Wayne heir the morning he went missing, and now, she blamed herself and mourned for her failure.

He found her gazing wistfully at the dark and grieving city below them, hearing faint sirens and honks and the grumbles of the night sky. Diana sighed, “I suppose you already know what he is.”

Landing quietly on top of a stone gargoyle’s head, Clark answered. “I do, unfortunately.”

“From Waller?”

“Yes. And I’ve made a few investigations myself.”

She closed her eyes at one particularly loud thunder, the night’s bad weather announcing the future’s bad omen, as she moved to grip the handle of her sword tightly and raised her head to him. “He is afraid of his own gift. He calls it a curse. To see hundreds of different and possible realities scares him, he doesn’t know which will happen. If you do manage to find him, to save my dear friend when I can’t – please, don’t take him to Waller. Don’t _leave_ him.”

“Did he predict this would happen?”

Diana shook her head.

Forty-five hours passed, body bags were found afloat Hob’s River.

Fifty-one hours, one bleak afternoon, six decapitated heads were made as ornaments to Superman’s bronze statue in Central Metropolis.

Twenty more had gone missing. Children included.

Eighty-three hours, at dawn, the Wayne Family received Bruce Wayne’s bloodied clothing crumpled in a duffel bag – along with a chopped ring finger. No notes, no ransom. Martha Wayne’s heartbroken and disheveled appearance was a sight Clark hoped his own mother would never go through.

The military convoys who were in charge of transporting the green-minerals to Pentagon, found in Bruce Wayne’s glasshouse, were ambushed by unknown assailants with missiles – had themselves brutally killed and the minerals stolen.

It was a quarter past seven of a strangely busy night, after a number of failed investigations and constant pressures from the public and the Pentagon – one hundred and nineteen desperate and tiring hours later – in which Clark suddenly caught on an incessant, ringing noise that hurt his ears. He grimaced at the sharp, annoying shrill that as it seemed, only he could hear. Hesitantly did he search and follow the sound, nearly tumbling as he moved away from the streets where the pedestrians frowned curiously at his panic and blanched face. He knew this was a trap, a lure for him – but if this was the only way he could do to save all those victims caught under Joker’s schemes, then so be it. Down to Gotham’s packed subway; trembling hands trailing tiled walls, shoulders bumping, rough-gentle-gruff voices passing, the ringing noise grew louder and louder and mingled with the too many bystanders around him. Left and right, the noise was everywhere and it was painful, he couldn’t focus. Clark winced, and was breathing heavily as he scanned for the source. And when his eyes spotted a strange-looking, hooded man sitting and huddling on a bench—

—a powerful explosion hurled him back, without warning.

Clark gasped awake, disoriented. It could be seconds after or minutes, maybe hours. His visions blurred and his hearing dulled, he felt human and vulnerable. He could make out a gushing sound of water somewhere nearby, and the hisses and crackles of scorching fire. Swirling black and green, swaying and burning orange-red greeted him, an unknown ache, weight and pain was pinning his stomach to the ground – and the overwhelming smell of smoke and blood suffocated him. Followed by another torturous wave of high-pitched noises that pained his ears, he finally surrendered and closed his eyes to the welcoming darkness. 

-

There was a distant sound of rumbling machine, a generator maybe, as he regained consciousness. A ragged breathing, not his. Slow, dreadfully slow, and dying heartbeat.

Voice. Loud voices. Belonged to another two racing heartbeats; one with a stale vodka breath and the other, ripe body odor.

_“—dude weighs like a fuckin’ boulder!”_

Jabs to his ribs, and he twitched.

_“Look at that, man! Guy’s still alive! He’s tough, I’m warnin’ ya.”_

_“No shit, Sherlock.”_ A pause. _“I wonder why the boss is so interested in him.”_

_“Who? Him?”_

A shuffled, then a sharp slap of a hand to skin.

_“Well, all I know is this guy’s a fuckin’ pussy.”_

Body Odor snorted, earning a loud smack to his head, and grumbled when Bad Breath ordered him to close and lock the cell’s door. He did as told, leaving the area in complete and devastating silence. Clark cracked his eyes open seconds later, breathing out with a harsh cough and spat blood out of his mouth. For the first time in his life, he felt exposed. The ache, throbbing agonizingly in his stomach and spiking on every inch of his nerves, grew a lot worse whenever he tried to move, until he suddenly realized that he was facing a slight difficulty in healing his wounds. He was upside-down, tied by his ankles and hanged like an offering. Looking sideways and above his head, Bruce Wayne was out cold on the floor. Too warm for a human’s normal body temperature, the man was suffering a terrible fever – face colored deep red, sweating and bloody. Clark flashed his eyes past the loose dress shirt and slacks, there were torture marks all over his body, remnants of tears and wounds. Heavy injuries, a broken leg.

One of the many consequences for arriving days late, was having Bruce Wayne nearly dead. Another was that Bruce Wayne was the only survivor apart from himself. But what about the other victims? Swanwick was right, after all. Clark could smell the weak stench of rotting flesh wafting into the cell. He heard nothing, nor see anything behind stone cement walls. There were none left.

And those people at the subway—

— _smell of smoke and blood_ —

Dead, they were all dead. Caught in the blast.

Dead.

Dead.

Very dead.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, I'm here! Heyyyy! To those who are wondering, I've had a couple of emotional and mental breakdowns but I'm okay now, and I'm planning to continue all 'Angel Song' stories that I've left stranded. So let's enjoy, shall we? Unbeta'd, English is not my first language.
> 
> ST's Clark Kent/Kal-El is more calculative, pre-limitless (you'll know soon enough) and more decisive than LoBW's Clark Kent. I added more depth to Chapter One, figuring it would explain things a lot more - so, yay!

Clark drifted in and out of consciousness ever since he was brought into this damned place. Whenever he woke up, shivering and sweating, Bruce Wayne’s pained whimpers as he slept through his fever only spurred him to find any possible means to escape as soon as he could. But during the long moments he was in the darkness, it felt timeless. Like he was trapped in a peaceful and soundless vacuum, where all responsibilities, all loneliness were lifted off his shoulders. He could dream or conjure whatever he wanted, wished, there – mostly his birth parents, how they would kiss his forehead or smile so sweetly at him before they sent him flying to Earth alone. Bad Breath and the giant Body Odor were his and Bruce Wayne’s guards; twenty more were holed in the building, thirty were patrolling outside, and another fifty were armed with endless munitions. He woke up on the two grunts’ booming cackles, throwing insults and jokes at each other, with Body Odor hauling and hoisting the fever-stricken Bruce Wayne up his shoulder like he weighed nothing and out of their shared cell. His tired eyes followed them closely as they left, flashing through the walls with all his strength and heightened his hearing to the dark room where they led Bruce Wayne into. Like an operation theatre, with the exception of lethal, torture items and scattered papers and pencils. Someone was sitting there waiting and watching as Body Odor strapped Bruce Wayne to the table.

It was _Joker_ , Joker was here.

Colored bright green hair and red lips, plated metal teeth. Topless, bleached and tattooed skin. He stalked towards the table when Body Odor walked out, looming over Bruce Wayne’s motionless figure as he traced his prey’s feverish skin – between the eyes, up to the man’s nose, chapped lips and chin. Joker ran a hand through Bruce Wayne’s hair when he startled awake, and the action was almost tender.

“—no,” he croaked.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Joker muttered, clamping one hand down on Bruce Wayne’s mouth, silencing him. “Shh, shh! You know I hate doing this to you, but you leave me no choice. My heart is broken because of you. You remember Harley, my dear? Our Queen? She left us, she doesn’t want anything to do with us anymore. And I’m hurt.”

Bruce Wayne struggled when Joker snaked his hand up underneath his shirt, but the attempt only spurred Joker to chuckle harshly against his ear. “It’s just you and me now, baby. Heal me up, give me what I want. And I promise you, I’ll make you my _Queen_. I’ll bow down to you, I’ll surrender everything I have for you!”

But Bruce Wayne didn’t stop, until Joker gnawed his nape, screaming at the pain. “Oh, please, please, pretty please! Show me our future together!” As he strutted to the corner of the room, dragging a metal bat, and swung them to Bruce Wayne’s already broken leg.

And that was about two hours ago. 

Now here he was, trapping one of his guards, literally in his iron fist. He managed to corner Bad Breath, caught him in a very pitying position where he almost peed his pants.

“—indulge me, tell me something I don’t know,” he rasped, tightening his grip around Bad Breath’s neck as he glowered red at the man’s paling features. Though exhausted and wounds unhealed, he was thankful enough that he still retained some of his strength – in which intimidation, was one of them.

“I-I can’t, man!” Bad Breath gurgled, suffocating, hands clutching on Clark’s wrist – wrestling in mid-air to escape. “Boss…! He’ll chew my ass for this!”

Unimpressed, his thumb dug on the man’s windpipe.

“O-Okay, okay!”

Clark loosened, but never left his hold. 

“…Fuck, man,” he whimpered, coughing a little. “W-Wayne, he uhh… The Boss likes him, ya know? He says Wayne’s a special dude, something like a fuckin’ psychic, b-but more powerful? Boss told us he would catch and kill Superman, y-you I mean, w-we didn’t believe him until he brought you here all by himself. Even after a bomb like that, you’re still alive, man! He gutted you, and fuckin’ put all of that shit inside you. Don’t kill me for saying this, but you’re supposed to be dead by now…!”

Sighing, he thought he didn’t even know how to commit suicide. And he was exposed, they knew his identity. “…What was it?”

“I really have no fuckin’ clue,” Bad Breath trembled. “I-It was green, shiny lookin’ like jewels.”

-

Blinking through the haze of his open wounds, how his blood trickled down to his face and soaked his shirt, he thought he was hallucinating when he noticed Joker standing idly at his front. The clown wriggled his fingers at him, drawling a mocking hello and showed him a suspicious glow of an emerald crystal that pained him even more. It had a nauseating effect on him, weakening and crumbling what was left of his strength. Kryptonite, the scraps Wayne Enterprises extracted from the Engine were Kryptonite stones. He should have guessed it, but he didn’t, they were aiming to eliminate him, to force him to completely submit to them from the very beginning – both Bruce Wayne and Waller.

“You know what this is called, don’t you? Batsy calls it _the_ Kryptonite, your poison. I call it, my crown. I found lots of them, and it’s such a waste to not use them on you,” he sneered, waving the Kryptonite. “—know something? It wasn’t that hard to find ya at all. No, no, no. It was just that easy!”

Tossing the crystal into the air as he circled him like a predator. “What do they call you again? Is it Kansas? Four-eyed nerd who works at the Daily Planet? Clark Kent?”

He clenched his jaw, tempering his anger when Joker threw out and revealed his name like an insult.

“Or is it Superman, the all-mighty _God_.”

He could only wish he could disintegrate the damn thing, as he glanced at the subject he was supposed to rescue, but he found the spot empty. “…Where’s Bruce Wayne?”

“Batsy? Why? What’s he to you, Supes? Can’t you see him anywhere in this fuckin’ building?” Joker tittered before he blew out a long exhale, a wide grin tugging on his cheeks. “Sounds like you got seduced by my baby! It turns you on!”

“I’m not. I’m here to save him, from you.”

“From _me_? Oh no, there must be a mistake ‘cause I’m saving him from _you_! For someone so powerful, you can be a little dense, Supes! Well let me tell you a secret, you can’t trust the people you’re working for, every single one of them. They say they want to help my Batsy but they can’t. They say they want to offer my Batsy a sanctuary but they’re not. Waller’s Cadmus Project, look that up, big guy,” Joker muttered, then cackled, slapping his rough hands against Clark’s bloodied cheeks, fingernails jamming into the sides of his neck. “Batsy needs me, you understand? He’s fragile. His mind needs a balance. Me and him, we fit like a puzzle! I saw my future with him, he let me, and it was sooo beautiful! I’m addicted. There… Is a place where it's only my Batsy and me. The lights are all out, people are dead, and the sunset’s raining! And you, you’re there, right there – I broke you, I broke him ” he paused, then with a smile, a sinister one as he gestured to the _open_ door. “I let him walk out – wanna see how my future looks like? It starts with this!”

“No…!”

 With that, Joker slithered out, bellowing Bruce Wayne’s name as he went. Though the effect of the Kryptonite stone on him grew lesser, but the debris inside his system was not, and Clark found himself truly helpless. Flashing his eyes past the walls, he caught Joker stomping on Bruce Wayne’s bad leg, tore at the man’s slacks when he fell, paid no attention to his captive’s cries and begs as he—

—as he…

-

He let himself bleed.

Teeth clenched on his torn shirt, he buried and busied his fingers into all his cuts, on his abdomen, intending to search for the debris. Stretching his skin apart; undoing the seams of badly done sutures, boring his fingers and scooping pieces of Kryptonite stuck and hidden between his digestive organs. He retrieved ten, twenty of them ten minutes later. Panting, exhausted and weak, he glanced at Bruce Wayne who laid still feverish and unconscious below him. He suffered so much, Clark didn’t know, no one should know – but the man should never be trusted, no humans would ever be. Not anymore, he had enough betrayal. Moments ago, Clark had watched Body Odor dragging Bruce Wayne back into the cell, cuffing the man’s wrists above his head and with a sigh, he pulled the torn slacks up to his waist – pitying him.

“—at least you’ve shown me that my son is still alive, somewhere out there,” Body Odor mumbled, stepping back as he closed the door.

Something must have changed, because Clark never saw both Body Odor and Bad Breath again after that.

-

“—it’ll be less traumatizing if you do.”

Clark could see the fear and shock in Bruce Wayne’s – _Bruce’s_ – eyes; the hitch and the gasp in his voice, felt the trembles on his cold hands, and the unconscious, defensive curl of his body. He knew how he looked like, a walking nightmare with a fuming pair of eyes and scorching auburn webs and tendrils on his skin. Betrayal was what he felt, no one ever did trust him no matter how much he had sacrificed. Until he spotted a tear rolling down Bruce’s cheek. He halted, remembering the night at the gala with Martha Wayne and Bruce on the podium – he must have seen something, like right now. Clark then watched the human closing his eyes, taking deep breaths in as if to calm himself. He didn’t look afraid anymore, he looked _trusting_.

For once, Clark hesitated – this man wanted to kill him, but why did he feel conflicted?

“…Why aren’t you afraid of me? Why are you trusting me?”

“I-I don’t have any reason… To treat you the same like the monsters who did this to me.”

He looks at you like you’re human, a _man_ – he thought – not a machine, not an alien.

Then.

Came the bloodbath.

Red painted the walls and the floors, bullets and bodies strewn all over. With Joker awfully beaten, face unrecognizable, Clark stared at his hands – wet and bloody, dripping and never leaving. He did this monstrosity, he took the lives he promised to never execute. This wasn’t Justice, this was murder. Stumbling back to his and Bruce’s cell, he caught the empathic look written on the man’s face, like he knew this would happen.

Of course he knew, he was a goddamn psychic after all.

“Please… Leave? Don’t come save me anymore,” Bruce told him quietly, looking so small, tired and vulnerable at the corner. “Go…”

Bruce trusted him to do as he was told – to abandon him here. Trust, he never knew the feeling after all, it was strange to him and it scared him. And so, Clark fled, leaving Bruce all by himself in a building full of corpses.

-

He counted – one, two, three, four and five.

Five days since he was held captive with Kryptonite debris lunged in his body, five days since he last saw Bruce, five days of suffering through bouts of torturous, heart-stopping nightmares. Clark barraged down to Ellesmere after his escape, ice and dusts flew all over, crimson over white and blue. He bathed himself in the cold, morning sunlight, feeling his skin mending and stitching as he groaned at the pain of it all. Sitting on the porch steps of his parents’ farmhouse, he frowned at the sense of déjà vu that invaded him. This exact spot was where he made his decision and began his journey – saving the world, he intended, not a threat. Unable to return to the reality he thought was easy, he caught himself at a standstill. Billions used to trust and believe in him, it hurt when they turned away when he couldn’t save the hundreds of victims Joker had slaughtered. Too late, they said. Even the men and women he worked under, prepared an emergency plan to execute him when necessary. No one to trust, everyone was a potential murderer. But there came Bruce, out of nowhere, a stranger whom he had conflicted feelings with, whom he believed was there to destroy him with Kryptonite – where in actuality was just a man who was caught in between. A man who was selfless. A man who was suffering. A man who saw Clark like a _human_.

_“Please… Leave? Don’t come save me anymore.”_

Bruce was trying to save him. He must have known and seen something that involved Clark in the future, if so, what did he do? There must be a possibility, maybe in another dimension somewhere, where they both could be truly happy.

“…I can’t do this, the world’s too big,” he mumbled, “I can’t do this, I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know ST's chapter two doesn't synchronize with LoBW's prologue, because the latter's sequence is a dream aka LoBW's Bruce's perspective, you feel me? I'll post chapter three as soon as I'm able, mkay? I love you guys <3


	3. STRING THEORY ANNOUNCEMENT (**NOT AN UPDATE**)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> READREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREADREAD

 

STRING THEORY ANNOUNCEMENT

 

Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning this story.

I’ve left ‘String Theory’ and ‘Lullaby of Bruce Wayne’ close to a year now, maybe more. And I’m terribly sorry… hell, sorry doesn’t even cut how atrocious I’ve been for saying a lot of promises that I can’t keep. If you've visited my dashboard, some of the stories I've posted are inactive. And I published a fucking lot and didn't even care about it until I've been somewhat inspired by wandering, drunk angels passed out on my front door. It's not only 'ST' and 'LoBW' that I'm having some troubles with. 

I have a lot of reasons why, so here’s a few:

  * My muse for SuperBat is ‘missing in action’ at the moment, but once **Justice League** movie’s out, I’m sure my inner fan-girl mode will be found again. And I have to say, I’m looking forward to that movie – can’t wait for some more Benry and SuperBat!
  * I have a depression. It’s a thing that I have since two years ago. I can’t get things done. I’m getting better (I think) but it’s hard. It makes me so sad that whenever I read your comments, wanting so much to make you guys proud and satisfied, and my fingers are ready and hovering above the keyboard, I can’t get it done. My mind will say, ‘ _I can’t do it’_. I will constantly edit it, and most of the time, I just give up. I've let you guys down.
  * University issues. A lot of university issues. A lot of drama-queens. Drama-queens are weighing me down. Down is bad. Bad is laughing at me. I changed my major last semester, and I just got out of a very challenging/traitorous  atmosphere. 
  * And I’m working too, so… time is limited. But I’m gonna work on my scheduling.



I will finish ‘String Theory’. Period.

I'm not trying to attract attention. It's the truth, and I've been advised to let it all out. 

Thank you **Porcupine3108** , **Queenofshire405** and so many others for being so terribly loyal. I’ll make it up to you guys who still read this… piece of literature-crap.

See you soon, enjoy the rest of your summer.  
Eai (MoroseS)

 

 


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